There is among those who esteem themselves acquainted with the rudiments of good health a conviction that each of us requires precisely eight hours of sleep daily and no more. Last evening after having exhausted the humour of “Frasier” re-runs on Netflix we succumbed to the allure of the straw bed around ten o’clock. Whether because of clean living or the natural result of exercise and a fulfilling meal (perhaps punctuated by the soporific effect of Tylenol Arthritis 650 mg pills and Dosecann THC Oil Spray) I thereafter spent a quiescent eight hours. If I recall correctly it was magically 6:20 am this morning when I awoke from my dreamless slumber. Through the drawn draperies I discerned an uncommonly blue sky. For whatever reason (I did not open the patio door) the balmy weather was as evident. The combination of the hour, the sky and the suggestive weather inspired me to get a move on!

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It wasn’t until precisely 11:00 o’clock this morning that I shamefully succeeded to raise myself from the sprawling king-size mattress and confronted the already glittering world about me. Apparently the 7:00 am collection of prescription drugs and painkillers had nicely tranquillized me for the first half of the day. I immediately took a hot and cold shower (inspired by my native asceticism) then proceeded to assemble my routine breakfast of sliced apple, wedge of Brie cheese and handful of pitted prunes. Afterwards it was a late morning bicycle ride on the erstwhile railway right-of-way where we strangely encountered few pedestrians and fewer cyclists. It was a quietude which signalled the remainder of the day. Upon our return to the apartment we resolved to celebrate Canada Day by driving southward to the Ivy Lea Parkway parallel the St. Lawrence Seaway. The weather was sultry. Billowing white clouds mounted in the azure sky.

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“He has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating it’s most sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating & carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their transportation thither. This piratical warfare, the opprobium of INFIDEL powers, is the warfare of the CHRISTIAN king of Great Britain. Determined to keep open a market where MEN should be bought & sold, he has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain this execrable commerce. And that this assemblage of horrors might want no fact of distinguished die, he is now exciting those very people to rise in arms among us, and to purchase that liberty of which he has deprived them, by murdering the people on whom he also obtruded them: thus paying off former crimes committed against the LIBERTIES of one people, with crimes which he urges them to commit against the LIVES of another.”

Excerpt From: Thomas Jefferson. “Autobiography of Thomas Jefferson.”

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Sunday morning breakfast at the golf club in the Village of Appleton along the meandering Mississippi River has become a stock performance of ours. Like most ingrained habits it is a combination of convenience and reliability. Historically we have perched ourselves on high chairs at elevated tables in the dining room overlooking the first tee. This year during the pandemic we’re obliged to dine al fresco on the patio. The young sylphlike summer-student servers wear face masks and practice social distancing as well as regularly using disinfectants. In spite of the dystopian medical precautions the substantive culinary and social experience is predominantly unchanged. The usual people congregate at the trough. The geese and their goslings waddle about on the fairway above the marsh reeds adjacent the River.

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Little interrupts my routine daily agenda. My mediocrity is well settled! My complacency is equally hardened. This being said, the interruption – whatever it may be – is likely not of atmospheric import. Allow me to explain.  My timetable as a retired country lawyer consists generally of a healthful breakfast (sliced green apple, Brie cheese and pitted prunes), bicycling for 10 kms, afternoon amusements (grocery and bakery shopping, searching for white woollen socks, washing the car and driving around, a restorative coffee and writing my codswallop), dinner (raw veggies, tea biscuit and Becel, filet mignon with Keen’s hot mustard and plain buttertarts aka the Sacrament of Heaven), Netflix and sleep. The syllabus is overall interposed with Dosecann THC oil spray which has proven to be a reliable modern laudanum.

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The weather forecast is balmy. With the usual inconceivable urgency we are headed to one of the summer’s central holiday weekends; namely, Canada Day on July 1st. The pandemic will unquestionably  disturb normal congregation. I suspect however that the historic focus upon food will survive. My recent finding at Beckwith Kitchen, Carleton Place of its “house crafted corn relish” constitutes for me a life-altering episode! Granted my capacity for propulsion is never far below the surface and is natively correspondent and enthusiastic. But the plain truth is that the domestic condiment succeeds to elevate my shamelessly uncultured plate of sliced raw vegetables and fresh squeezed lemon juice (with just a handful of blueberries) to a new height of achievement! Never have I been so fervently reminded of the poetic rapture of the trough! I now approach the ritual cocktail hour with new vigour and devotion. No longer is it sufficient to rely only upon the adage that “the best sauce for any meal is an appetite“. Instead I have adorned the once visceral instinct with the inexpressible magic of a skilful conglomerate.

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For many years we vacationed on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. Cycling there is one of the most popular recreations.  The pathways throughout the Island are well maintained. In addition is the ability to cycle on the wide beach. It is understood among the swarms of cyclists and those walking along the pathways that the shout-out “On your left!” (or similar verbal notice) when approaching from behind is common courtesy.  When we subsequently switched our winter digs to Longboat Key we learned that the expected vernacular when passing someone on the pathway is to ring a bell.  The rental bikes on Longboat Key come equipped with a bell in the handlebar. Regrettably there are some cyclists who assume that an alert of their approach is either irrelevant or unnecessary.  They couldn’t be more wrong.

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It doesn’t require much to entertain me – other that is than a clean conscience (and a clean windshield), scintillating company, a good night’s rest, a satisfied gut, a smooth car and a sunny day! As for the rest I can handily fill in the blanks along the way. Our venture this afternoon took us first on a mission of necessity to historic Renfrew County then southward on an assignment of diversion towards the St. Lawrence Seaway to the charming hamlet of Spencerville. The highways on either end of today’s journey were 4-lane and smooth sailing.  Sandwiched between the two extremities were the 2-lane roadways weaving up and down across the open fields of the rural counties.

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Part of my daily routine is a country drive in my new car, a Lincoln Aviator.  The fact that it is new is irrelevant.  My car – whatever it may happen to be at the moment – likely qualifies as new or practically new. What is closer to the unburnished truth is that I adore driving an automobile. It oddly enlists the same spiritual energy I derive from playing the piano. It is a catharsis of sorts. The purity of my endeavour was however initially contaminated. I wasn’t out of the garage more than a second early this afternoon when I got it into my head that I should have washed the floor to expel a minor residue from the undercarriage. Upon leaving the garage I had noticed the blemish in the rear view mirror.  It was so trifling that I sought to dismiss its gravity.  But this was futile. Because I hadn’t attended to it immediately the obsession haunted me for the entirety of my outing.

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Nothing screams inferiority quite like the ordinance, “Back of the bus!”. I can’t but think that the proclamation was geared in particular for the lower classes of American society which includes not only those of racial disparity but also what Hillary Clinton successfully identified as the “deplorables” of society, predominantly poor, uneducated white, racist people. At the mud sucking level of society it is perhaps acceptable that a persistent skirmish prevails among the competing ingredients. I say this not with disparagement but with the same conviction that I expect that many corporate business people conduct their own affairs; namely, people at any level of society try to get away with whatever privilege or superiority they can.

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